Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
AUTHOR INFO
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THANK YOU
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MORE BOOKS
HIS LAST RACE
GOLD MEDAL EVENT ROMANCE
MEGAN MATTHEWS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.
Copyright ©2018 by Megan Matthews. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written person from the author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author at [email protected]
Thank you for purchasing HIS LAST RACE. I hope you enjoy the first book in the Gold Medal Romance Novella series.
GOLD MEDAL ROMANCE NOVELLA SERIES
His Last Race
His Last Fall
His Last Hill
His Last Love
If you’d like to stay up to date with books in my series or read about the other crazy things that I put on social media you can friend me at the following places. I love to hear from readers.
Definitely take time to check out my other series, The Boys of RDA. The first book is FREE for readers.
| FACEBOOK | TWITTER | INSTAGRAM | FB READER GROUP | PINTEREST | MAILING LIST | WEBSITE | BOOKBUB
- You can also buy the rest of the series by visiting my website -
Glitch, a holiday short story featuring Aspen and Finn’s first Christmas together is available as a FREE fan exclusive. This story isn’t available anywhere else. Just tell me where to send your free copy.
Tell me where to send your free exclusive story by clicking HERE
To all the athletes who live crazy lives and let us make Internet memes out of them.
CHAPTER ONE
The Gold Medal Winter Games are going to determine more than who goes home with first place this year.
I drag my carry-on luggage behind me, one of its wheels jamming every few rotations so the bag jostles in my hand. Each little hiccup is a reminder of the turbulence from the plane ride I left. The jetway exit ramp blocks off the outside view, but when I reach the end I make a sharp left and stop in front of the large glass windows, standard in every airport.
Outside, the weather resembles my internal feelings. Snow batters against the window with enough slosh in its makeup that if your eyes were closed it would sound like rain. I sigh and pull out my cell phone while it finishes booting up. Yet another vacation where all my friends will find themselves sitting on the beach or visiting some fun tropical tourist location while I’m burning my days in February at another winter Gold Medal Event.
With my phone in one hand and the handle of my bag in the other, I turn from the window and quickly pound out a text to my long-term boyfriend, Remington. Or as he’s called on the circuit, Remi.
Me: Are you here?
It’s not that I’m unhappy about being at the Golds — what we call it for short. This is the dream for most pro athletes. Actually it’s the dream for most of the people in this town. But this is Remi and my fourth Winter Games. At some point it becomes less fun and just one of those things you do every four years. Lucky for him, he still has the excitement, but for me this means since September — after the most important qualifying event — all I’ve heard about is talk of the upcoming games, practice, sponsors, and healthy eating. By Christmas I was already irritated.
My tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, Icelandic boyfriend started resembling one of my many pregnant girlfriends in my imagination. You know the kind, the ones that won’t shut up about their pregnancy. Everything becomes baby clothes, baby beds, baby bottles, baby toys. Do they bottle feed or breast-feed? Cloth diaper or disposables? It’s like having a live-in pregnant girlfriend, but rather than babies he’s obsessed with snowboarding equipment. Which socks wick away the most moisture? The best anti-fog goggles for wind resistance? Who even knew that was a thing?
Should he bring Diane — his lucky snowboard he won his second and third Golds with — or the new board one of his sponsors promised they’d write him a nice fat check for every official run down the mountain he made with it. He sorted out the major details — he brought Diane and two other boards just in case she was having an off day — and then we had to settle the minute things. How many pairs of wool socks should he bring? Keep growing the beard or shave it all off? Did he still own the pair of underwear he wore for his last win at the X Games? At some point I started to tune him out because I just need to get through this season.
My broken piece of luggage catches on the stairs of an escalator and I jerk on it to pull it over the bump. With my frustration level too high — who can blame me after a nine-hour plane ride — I pull too hard and the bag lunges forward going airborne as I squeeze the handle to stop it from hitting the person in front of me.
Stupid luggage.
Stupid Golds.
I spend the rest of the escalator ride bouncing between anger, frustration, and annoyance, but everything will be filed away in the recess of my mind by the time I reach the end. I will plaster on a smile and be the loving, supportive girlfriend Remi needs for the next two weeks. I’ve played this role for the last thirteen years, but this is the first time I’ve had to pretend. A knot of dread forms in my stomach. It’s a feeling I’ve had the last few months, but I haven’t wanted to put a name to it.
I might not be able to voice it yet, but subconsciously I realize the popular Beyoncé song is a reflection of my life. I’m thirty years old, and if at some point my oblivious boyfriend doesn’t put a ring on it, he’s going to need to pay his sister to roll his fifteen pairs of wool socks just the way he likes them when he packs his bag.
He’s a pro snowboarder, and like real rabbits, there’s always a wide selection of snow bunnies waiting around every corner. It’s the not-so-friendly name the girls who like to dress skanky and sleep with as many skiers and snowboarders they can at events like this have earned themselves over the years. Maybe that’s our problem. How can he commit to me when there are so many choices all around him? Girls that are skinnier than me, prettier than me, and sexier than me. I should’ve let him put it in the back hole when he asked for his last birthday.
Besides our matching blond hair, Remi and I are opposites. My eyes are a deep dark brown compared to his light blue. In a normal situation I’d probably be happy with my 5’3” frame and one-hundred-and-twenty-pound body, but when you’re surrounded by rejected supermodels, all you think about is how every double whip hot chocolate frappe you consume sets up permanent shop on your thighs.
The escalator ride ends and true to my words there is a bright big smile on my face as I step off, jerking the luggage behind me. I follow the crowd as they lumber toward the baggage claim. There’s nothing for me to pick up there, but it’s the designated meeting place for whenever Remi volunteers to pick me up at the airport. It’s also internationally known as the best place to pick up a cab for the times he forgets.
With a quick glance at my phone, I clear all the alerts, most of them notifications I missed
on Facebook over the long flight. There’s not a return text reassuring me he’s here. Since there’s no one to see — not even a driver holding a sign with Marley Mackey on it — I drop my smile. The media doesn’t snap pictures of long-term girlfriends of snowboarders at the airport.
I’m not sure why Remi’s absence bothers me so much today. It’s happened before. His work comes first. And don’t start thinking I’m one of those self-centered crazy girlfriends who routinely get upset about that. I’m not. I know the drill. When you’re dating a pro snowboarder, the snow comes first. Always.
It’s just that after thirteen years with Remi, the snow has come first a lot. Don’t let me paint him in a bad light. Remi is an amazing boyfriend. When snowboarding doesn’t consume his every thought, he’s the kind of guy you take home to meet Mom and Dad even with the sleeve of tattoos. He makes pancakes for me on the weekends, puts the dishes in the dishwasher not on the counter next to it, and knows how to put a toilet seat down. From listening to all of my friends, these are major transgressions in the man world that I do not have to deal with.
Plus, let’s be honest…he’s hot. I already mentioned the tattoos, but snowboarding takes a lot of muscle, which means my man is ripped. And not just his arms and legs, but his abs and ass too. You remember when I mentioned he’s tall with blond hair and blue eyes, right? But you skipped right over the Icelandic part didn’t you? Do me a favor and Google Icelandic man and you’ll see why that adjective is important. Their firm, strong jaws and deep cheekbones would set any girl’s ovaries on fire. Born in America, he doesn’t speak a word of the language, but that’s okay. I pretend it’s something like French, and every time he mentions a random snowboard word, it’s like he’s whispering sweet French nothings in my ear. It makes it all a little more bearable.
That’s why it’s okay when I reach the baggage claim and his tall beautiful ass is nowhere to be seen. I forgive him because later tonight when he starts talking about average runtimes and the smooth grating on the halfpipe, I’ll pretend he’s speaking Icelandic French and cuddle up beside him with stars in my eyes, holding on to every word.
I laugh out loud and a few people turn to look. Remi totally gets me and realizes half the time I’m not listening to a word he says, but like any good relationship, he puts on a nice show of listening to me prattle on about my kindergartners I teach. It’s give and take. And right now it’s my turn to give.
A line of taxis idle on the curb and I slide into the first one, not giving the driver time to get out and take my luggage. I pull the broken bag into the back seat and slam the door quickly, giving him the address to my hotel.
The Gold Medal participants have to stay in the athlete village, which is really just a big apartment building constructed for the sole purpose of housing athletes for these two weeks. They’re normally shoddy construction with at least two people to a room, but those of us here as visiting guests get to stay in posh resorts that cater to the tourists.
The taxi sets off, the driver pushing on the gas so fast I’m thrown back into the seat. I scramble to buckle my seatbelt and stare out the side window watching the snow-covered scenery go by.
I sound cynical, but that really isn’t the case. I love snowboarding and am drawn to the excitement of these events. This is my boyfriend’s dream and there’s nothing cooler than getting to be a part of watching him realize those dreams.
I’ve been enamored with Remington Jonsson since the very first time I saw him. Believe it or not, it wasn’t his pretty face that caught me. At seventeen, on my last high school Christmas break, my family surprised me with a ski trip. The thought of shredding some powder consumed my thoughts. What more could there be to do as a teen in Aspen over winter break? Of course my seventeen-year-old brain didn’t think about everyone else who would be on a ski mountain. On the first day I was overloaded with hot guy material, but in my second afternoon as I jumped off the ski lifts, I was passed by a tall figure dressed in all black. His face and eyes were covered by ski goggles, but as he jetted down the hill, I couldn’t take my eyes away. A small strip of neon blue fabric — what I would soon learn was his trademark color — the only identifying piece on him. I spent the rest of my day looking for that strip of blue again.
I didn’t see him again until the next day as we lined up together at the top of the hill. Without a single word spoken between us, we agreed to a race — me on my skis and him with a black snowboard. Like two classic muscle cars we revved our engines, getting into position and starting down the hill at the same time. He beat me to the bottom by at least a minute, but when I finally stopped beside him, he ripped off his goggles. Rather than boasting his win, he quickly declared he owed the loser a drink.
Of course we were both underage, so the drink was hot chocolate next to the fire in the lodge at the bottom of the mountain. From that day forth I haven’t looked at another man, but I always have my eyes set to find his signature blue fabric. It’s a trademark feature he’s carried with him all these years, through different sponsors and events, when you see it you know you’ve just seen Remi Jonsson.
Even then in our very first meeting he was training for the Golds, and snowboarding has been a part of our relationship ever since. A year older than me, Remi had already finished high school and become well known as a snowboarding prodigy. Two months after our meeting he won silver at his first Winter Games as I cheered from my living room. Three months later he cheered from the stands as I received my diploma. I went to college to study early education while he went to the X Games. He won first place at a second Golds and I walked on the graduation dais again.
After that we settled into a new normal routine and moved in together. Another Gold Medal Winter Games passed along with a master’s degree for me. Gold medals and trophies filled our second bedroom as homemade magnets — the most gifted Christmas treasures from my students — covered our refrigerator.
But now at thirty-one Remi has spent the last year promising this is his final Winter Games. After a serious knee injury took him down about two years ago, the snowboarding prodigy is ready to retire. It’s given me hope maybe after this our lives can move forward in a new direction.
I’m thirty, after all, and I’ve had baby fever since waking up on my twenty-eighth birthday. Remi gets the scared deer in the headlights look whenever I mention kids, but he would be one of those really awesome and attentive dads. The type to volunteer as the soccer coach or go on all the school field trips.
But it’s hard to plan a wedding when there’s always another competition around the corner. And when he isn’t training at the slopes by our house in Colorado, he’s spending his summers on the other side of the world training during their winter.
So I waited.
And then I waited more.
I sat around watching my friends get married, have kids, get divorced, and then get remarried. I waited for Remi.
He’s been worth the delay, but now it’s my time.
CHAPTER TWO
The cab turns on a winding driveway and stops in front of a dark stained log cabin resort. Massive timbers support the large wrap-around porch and open up to heavy, tall wooden doors. It’s a look more than one ski resort I’ve stayed in with Remi over the years has supported.
My face lights up with the grin I practiced so well at the airport, but this time it’s for real. My big towering hunk of a boyfriend stands on the first step of the Lodge, a large bouquet of white lilies — my favorite flower — clutched in front of him. It must have been hella expensive for him to find a bouquet of white lilies in February in this part of the world.
I can’t help but smile when Remi is around. With the beautiful lodge behind him and a very light snow starting, he’s still the prettiest thing in sight. Or as he’s told me time and time again, he’s the hottest dude on whatever side of the Earth we’re on at the moment. With the biggest, longest dick you’ve ever seen. His penis is the only one I’ve seen in live-action, but comparing it to the PornHub vide
os I’m forced to watch when he’s not around, he’s right about that part.
For a second the world stops and I use a moment to stare and take in his presence. Tall, his jaw hidden by the short dirty blond beard I’m glad he’s decided not to shave off. He won’t practice with the beard if he planned to get rid of it closer to competition time because he’ll tell you it would mess up all of his wind resistance calculations. His light blue, almost steel-colored eyes sparkle. Unlike me and everyone else around, he’s not wearing a coat, but a tight fitted black thermal shirt, a neon blue piece of fabric running up the side.
He jogs over to the cab, his long legs making short work of the distance, and pulls open my door. Leaning inside the cab, he brushes three quick kisses to my lips that I a wish were longer, but at least the taste of him lingers on my skin as he pulls me from the seat. In another flash he’s lost in the cab while he tosses a few bills to the driver and retrieves my lone suitcase.
“So sorry, babe. Practice ran over and I knew I couldn’t get there in time,” he says tugging on my hands as he pulls me up the resort steps. Handles on rolling luggage are never long enough for him so rather than mess with the broken wheel, he takes up my case and carries it with his other hand.
I walk through the resort entryway while he holds the door open. “It’s okay, Remi. I understand.”
And I really do, as frustrating as the Golds and having a pro snowboarder is for a boyfriend, when it comes to amazing guys, I got the cream of the crop.
“Well hopefully I made up for it.” We walk right on by the reservation desk and staff to a bank of elevators. Remi pushes the up button and an elevator door opens immediately.
“You already checked me in?”
He smiles down at me and cocks his head to the side as if to say, “I have no idea.” “That’s not even the surprise.”
His Last Race Page 1
